Steady State
by lirodendron
Summary: Set after the main action of Baskerville, around the time Moriarty is released, but pre-Reichenbach. While working a case, tragedy befalls John, causing Sherlock to think long and hard about his feelings. References to sex and drug use, nothing graphic.


They had been in pursuit of a Sicilian arms dealer when it happened. It was a wet night, no moon and no stars, winding their way through back alleys near the docks, trying not to lose sight of him. The police had been called, of course, but it would take time for them to get there, and in that time the suspect could disappear and be on a ship to Italy before they found him again, gone without a trace. It had taken nearly three weeks to track the man down, and neither Sherlock nor John was about to give him up on account of rain.

They ducked behind a dumpster as he fired another round of shots at them. They were both breathing heavily.

"You keep after him," John said panting. "You're faster. I think I know where he's heading, I might be able to cut him off."

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded. John took off down a narrow side street to the left, towards the water. Sherlock fired his gun once to keep the criminal's attention, then resumed his pursuit. They were running parallel to the ocean, a few blocks from the actual docks. Suddenly, as John had surmised, the man turned sharply and made for the wharf. He dropped out of Sherlock's sight, but Sherlock smiled anyway. There weren't many escape routes that way, and John would be waiting for him.

He swerved down the first connecting street and reached the water's edge in only a few moments. In the sparse lights nearby, he could just make out two figures on the end of a long pier. He had come out farther from them than he expected. Before he could get on to the pier, he saw something gleam in the dim light. A knife.

"John!" he shouted "Behind you!"

But John didn't even have time to turn fully before the other man plunged the blade into his back. Time seemed to stop as John teetered on the edge of the pier, illuminated by a single yellow safety light, and then fell soundlessly into the freezing black water.

Sherlock was already running. Their quarry was gone now, but he barely noticed. He ran the length of the pier and dove into the water blindly, without even a second's pause at the edge. His slim form broke the water cleanly and he swam down at the angle it appeared that John had fallen in. Where was he, where was he? Sherlock couldn't make out anything in the inky black. He swam down further, kicking his shoes off, groping in every direction.

He was running out of air. He couldn't stay down much longer. But he knew if he went back up he would lose any chance of saving his friend. The water was too deep here, and the night too dark. He would never find him. Stubbornly he pushed on. At last, by chance, his fingers snagged something. Wool. A jumper. John. He pulled toward himself with all his strength. He was able to get one long arm around John's midsection, and then kicked as hard as he could up to the surface.

He broke the water with a huge gasp. They were only about five metres from the pier. He took another deep breath and dragged John to the edge, pushing him up ahead and then clambering up behind him, his coat heavy with water.

He lay John on his back on the wooden slats of the pier. "John! John, speak to me. Can you hear me?" No response. A diluted stain of crimson blood bloomed from the back of his jumper; alarming, even though the wound didn't appear too deep. But John wasn't breathing. No pulse.

Sherlock cleared John's airway of as much water as he could and then, pinching John's nose, covered his mouth with his own and blew great blasts of air into his lungs. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing. He alternated with CPR, beating down on John's chest, willing his heart to start again. There was still no response. This could not be happening. It was just a routine case, nothing special. How had it have gone so wrong? He thought desperately as he worked. There had to be some way, something else he could try.

Suddenly he remembered. The Heimlich maneuver. It sometimes worked as a last resort to clear water from the lungs. He got behind John and wrapped his arms around him, making a fist with both hands and driving it up into John's diaphragm has hard as he could – one, two, three times. On the third thrust, a fountain of water erupted from John's mouth and nose. Sherlock let go of the breath he'd been holding, and lay the other man back down, again breathing into his mouth, four times.

Everything was still for a moment, and then suddenly John coughed, bringing up more water. Sherlock felt a pulse spring to life under his hands. His own heart, which seemed to have stopped for as long as John's had, began to beat again. "John, can you hear me?" Sherlock asked, putting a hand under his friend's head. He wasn't sure how long John had gone without oxygen – hopefully not long enough for brain damage. It had felt like hours.

John coughed again and opened his eyes. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock made a sound of relief. "John, you've been stabbed. Don't try to move. The police will be here soon." He hoped it was true. Both their mobiles were useless after a dunk in the ocean – Lestrade's quick response was their only chance. There was no one around to get help and he would not leave John. He tore off his scarf and bound it as tightly as he could around the stab wound in John's lower back, hoping that would be enough to slow the bleeding.

"C-c-cold," stuttered John. Sherlock cast around desperately for anything warm and dry, even a tarp, but there was nothing. His clothes were just as soaked as John's. He could only think of one thing to do.

"Stay still," he ordered, and gingerly climbed on top of his friend, trying to cover him with his own body as much as he could without aggravating the wound. John whimpered for a moment and then was quiet. Based on the air temperature, Sherlock calculated John would succumb to hypothermia before he bled out, and the knife did seem to have missed his vital organs. Keeping him warm was the priority. Still, he hoped he wasn't doing too much additional damage. He opened his coat so the fewest layers of fabric possible were between their chests, and spread it over them both like a blanket.

"Help will be here soon," he repeated into John's ear. "Help will be here soon."

That was how Lestrade's men found them, twenty minutes later: The tall, thin detective draped over the army doctor, shielding him from the elements with every fiber of his slender body. The Detective Inspector had to physically pry Sherlock off of his friend – he was delirious, and further into hypothermia than John. John's wool jumper and the shelter Sherlock had provided had helped him retain some heat, while Sherlock had been wearing cotton (which sapped heat from a body when wet), was exposed to the wind, and had virtually no body fat to help him conserve warmth.

He refused to be parted from John, in the ambulance or at the hospital. The staff tried to explain to him that he needed to be admitted, but he ignored them and they resorted to treating him as he sat by John's bedside, watching like a hawk as the doctors stitched him up and warmed him with blankets and fluids. Sherlock would not budge, not until he was sure that John was stable and out of danger. Only then would he permit himself to be led to a bed and made to lie down, and that was only because he had caught himself nearly falling out his chair at John's bedside.

He didn't know how long he slept but when he awoke, Lestrade was standing in the room.

"Where's John?" he demanded.

"He's fine," the DI assured him.

"I don't believe that was my question," Sherlock said, struggling to sit up. He began unhooking himself from the various IVs and monitors they had him tangled up in. Machines beeped and nurses ran in to check on him, thinking he was coding, but Lestrade waved them off.

Lestrade sighed. "He's just down the hall."

"And the perpetrator?"

"In custody. We caught him trying to buy passage aboard a freighter to Chile."

"Chile!" Sherlock cursed. He'd been way off on that one. He straightened and said primly, "I would like to speak with him alone as soon as that can be arranged."

Lestrade laughed. "Like hell! You aren't getting near him. We have enough to convict him and put him away for three lifetimes. I'm just here to get your statement." He shifted uncomfortably. "And to, um…make sure you're all right."

Sherlock was on his feet now, attempting to pull his hospital gown adequately around him, and painfully aware of how short it was. "No interview, no statement."

"Fine," Lestrade said. "We'll do it without your statement then. I can't prosecute a corpse, which is what I'd have if I gave you 30 seconds alone with him at this point."

Sherlock scowled. "We can discuss the terms of my statement later," he said coldly. "Right now I have more important things to attend to."

Lestrade was more than happy for the change of topic. "Here, don't go in there like that. I brought you some clothes from your flat."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "You were in my flat?"

"Mrs. Hudson got them for me. She'll be round in a little while, wanted you to have your things. Besides, Dr. Watson sees you like that, he'll just worry," Lestrade told him.

What an odd thing to say, Sherlock thought. But then people were always saying odd things to him, particularly about John. Still, the DI was right, certainly. If John saw him in this state, he would assume Sherlock was injured as well and that would likely add to his stress and slow his recovery. Sherlock nodded to Lestrade warily, took the clothes, and made himself presentable in the shortest time he could manage. Then he rushed to John's room.

John was sitting half-upright, leaning against the back of the hospital bed. His eyes were closed, but he opened them when he heard footsteps. He smiled with relief. "Sherlock!" he croaked, and cleared his throat. "Ahem. Sherlock. Sorry, bit dry in here. They said you were around here somewhere."

Sherlock approached the bed solemnly. "You're all right."

"Of course I am, takes more than this to kill me – you should know that!" He half-laughed, but stopped at the pain radiating from his stab wound. "I'll need some mending, but I'll be back on my feet before you know it."

Sherlock searched his friend's face and body for signs of more serious injury he might be hiding and found none. "You're all right," he repeated, with more conviction this time.

John gave him a peculiar look. "Yes, I told you." He coughed again, and looked embarrassed. "Look, Sherlock…I don't remember much after I ran off after that suspect, but they told me what…what you did for me. I…I don't know how to thank you. That was…um…good."

Sherlock inclined his head. "Would you have expected me to do something different?"

John grinned. "Actually, not at all."

Just then Mrs. Hudson showed up, making a fuss, and Lestrade insisted on a statement from both of them. Sherlock relented, resentfully, eager to be done with the whole business. There was no time to talk more for a while. Sherlock observed the events around him but felt oddly disconnected, like he was watching the telly with the sound turned way down. A feeling of foreboding overtook him.

He and John had both been in danger numerous times, and injured as well. And he knew, rationally that this incident was not his fault. But aside from the time at the pool, when Sherlock had been nearly certain they were both going to die, no other call had been quite so close. John had been without a heartbeat for at least 47 seconds, by Sherlock's count. His heart could easily never have started again and he– Sherlock forced his mind away from the thought. He could not go down that road.

He thought about the first day he had met John. Within 48 hours of meeting him, John had not only agreed to move in as his flatmate, but he had helped solve a case, saved Sherlock's life, and defended him to his brother. Twice. Not to mention praising his deductions, rather than referring to him as a freak, as so many did. No one had ever treated him like that before, not even his own family. Mycroft had helped him many times, but always saw it as a chore. John saw it as a privilege, and he accepted Sherlock completely, as he was. He had become integral to Sherlock's life in a way he had never imagined another human being could be.

He knew many of their acquaintances treated them as a couple, and he never corrected them, though John always did. It wasn't that he wanted people to believe that they were, he just didn't see the point in trying to change their minds. He was uninterested in labels or definitions. Did it matter what others thought the nature of their relationship was, as long as they knew? But did they know? Did _he_ know? John risked a lot for him, regularly, without appearing to think much about it. Not to mention all the general taking-care-of he did on a daily basis. Sherlock did try to show that he was grateful, but the truth was he often failed to notice entirely, and when he did notice he usually failed spectacularly in his attempts at gratitude. John did not seem to mind this, aside from what he interpreted at good natured grumbling, but he began to be worried that perhaps John's view of their situation was different than his.

He had been on the verge of being close to others before. Never like this, but on occasions in the past he had started to develop what seemed like real friendships, relationships of some ill-defined type, both with men and women, in the past. But something had always happened. He never knew what, really, but he always seemed to have let them down somehow. It was like they expected him to be someone he wasn't; to do certain things, to be a certain way, to act on certain emotions he wasn't sure he had. He had tried make them understand, but it always ended with the other person hurt and angry, and him confused and even more reticent to try to get close to another person, in any way.

John had lasted the longest, gotten the closest, and didn't seem to be dissatisfied with him. And yet, coming so close to losing him in this way made him think about other possible losses. What if he was misreading everything? He often forgot to pay attention to the moods and emotions of those nearest to him, and although he did make a special effort with John, it was still very possible that he was missing something and it was only a matter of time before this ended like every other intimacy he'd ever attempted. He wasn't sure he could bear it. He had to do something to make sure that didn't happen, but he had no idea what. They did not talk about things like this.

And then two nights ago he had got the message from his brother that Moriarty was being released. He had not told John. He knew it was only a matter of time before Moriarty came after him, and when he did at least one of them would not come out of the situation alive. He could only hope to ensure that Moriarty was the one who didn't, but realized it might well require his own life to do so. The thought of his own death had never frightened him – it was a curiosity, more than anything. But now he found himself strangely fearful of what was to come. There were so many ways he could lose, now.

His hand gripped the arm of the chair in John's room, as John slept, and he realized he was craving a hit. He hadn't in months, but the physical and mental stress of the past 24 hours was beginning to eat at him, and his mind was spiraling into dark places. He kept thinking about Moriarty. Moriarty with John strapped to a bomb. Moriarty with laser sights on John. John lying motionless on the pier. Had that been Moriarty's doing, his opening gambit? Unlikely. It was too direct, lacking in elegance. He could not begin to deduce Moriarty's plan until the other man made a move, and until then he was vulnerable on every side. And once he did make a move, it might be too late.

Sherlock closed his eyes. John lying motionless on the pier, again. The image would not leave him. He was in a hospital. Drugs were everywhere. It would be so easy for him to nick something – no one would ever know. He inhaled deeply and gritted his teeth. He could not afford to give in now. He had to remain alert, aware, even if he felt like his brain was trying to consume itself within his skull, and he longed for something, anything to shut it down, even for just a few minutes. He focused his attention on John's chest, watching the steady rhythm of his breathing – rise and fall, up and down. He forced himself to match his own breathing to it. He sat like that until morning, not sleeping, not moving.

It was decided that John could be released the next day. "He'll need some care for a few weeks," the doctor explained, "but nothing unmanageable as long as he stays still and behaves himself. We can arrange for a nurse to come in once a day to change his dressings, administer medication, and such, but is there someone at home who can take care of his meals and other needs?"

Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth, certainly to volunteer, but Sherlock was quicker. "I'll do it."

The doctor glanced at him skeptically, while John and Mrs. Hudson fairly gaped at him. "Are you the next of kin or spouse?" she asked. "I'm sorry, it's not written on the form."

He ignored the question. "A nurse will not be necessary. I read your instructions as you were writing them and I am more than capable of handling all of those tasks."

The doctor frowned and looked at John for confirmation. "Fine by me," he managed.

"I'll pitch in, of course," Mrs. Hudson added.

The doctor put up her hands in defeat and signed the discharge papers. Sherlock insisted upon pushing the wheelchair to the waiting taxi, and carrying John up the stairs when they reached 221B. John was quiet, exhausted from the effort of leaving the hospital and the short periods in which he'd had to stand, leaning on his friend, to get home. Sherlock put him in his own bedroom. Mrs. Hudson had put clean linens on the bed, cleared out the worst of his debris, and aired out the room as well as she could. "Too many stairs," he said by way of explaining why he did not take John to his upstairs room. "I'll kip on the sofa."

When John was settled he fell almost instantly asleep. Mrs. Hudson came to see if either needed anything. "No, thank you," Sherlock said, not taking his sharp eyes off his sleeping flatmate. He reached in his coat pocket. "But I would ask that you keep these in your possession and administer them to John at the intervals indicated on the labels. I'll manage the rest of his care."

He handed her several bottles of prescription painkillers, given to him by the doctor. She looked surprised but did not say anything, only scrutinized the labels. Sherlock added, "If you count you will find that the number of pills in the bottles matches the number printed on the bottles."

"Oh, Sherlock, I trust you!" she assured him.

"You shouldn't."

Over the next few weeks, Sherlock proved himself to be a surprisingly capable nurse. He continued to work on cases, but only those that could be solved relatively easily without too much legwork. He changed John's bandages with deft fingers, helped him stand and take small, slow excursions around the flat to keep his legs from weakening. He made John's meals, even if they did come from a tin. His one attempt at cooking from scratch had been inedible. Mrs. Hudson brought a regular stream of soups and snacks to supplement Sherlock's efforts.

He even tried to entertain John, when he remembered to do so, playing the violin for him and picking up novels of the pulpy sort John enjoyed when he went to the shops. He hardly slept, as usual, but when he did it was a light sleep, attentive to any noise from the bedroom that might indicate distress. Through it all, John was silently appreciative and tried to be a model patient, which was difficult for him. He felt that to draw attention to his friend's newly-found nurturing side would only embarrass them both. He adopted a stiff-upper-lip attitude to the whole thing, but was deeply grateful for Sherlock's presence.

Once John was on his feet and moved back into his own bedroom, things began to go back to normal again. Sherlock resumed treating John as an ever-present sounding board, stopped doing any shopping, cooking, or cleaning whatsoever, and threw tantrums when John attempted to watch programmes on the telly he didn't approve of. This, more than anything, made John feel like he was well again. He had appreciated the attentiveness, but coming from Sherlock it was also a bit unnerving and made him feel like the other man thought he was on death's doorstep.

Still, something had shifted slightly in their relationship. Sherlock seemed slightly less obstinate around him, slightly more aware of where John was and what he was doing, even when it didn't relate to anything Sherlock might be interested in. He seemed to be attempting to remember not to cause explosions or other loud noises late in the night. Sometimes he even made tea. And he was quieter. Not the maddening quiet of being lost so entirely inside his own head that nothing could reach him, but a more contemplative, melancholy kind of quiet that John had never seen before.

A month after the stabbing John was basically recovered. His wound pained him a bit, but it was well healed and in no danger of tearing open. He had begun to accompany Sherlock on cases again, although he was strictly forbidden from chasing criminals on foot for another few weeks, and was still on light duty at the surgery. But he came to crime scenes and the hospital and went to interview people. It was a relief after being cooped up at home for so long, having to rely on Sherlock to relay details to him, something which he often did in a rather jumbled fashion as they occurred to him.

One night, John awoke to a figure at the end of his bed. His flatmate was perched there, like a vulture, long legs tucked up under him and arms crossed.

"Sherlock?" John said, instantly awake with a soldier's alertness. "Good Lord, what are you doing in here? It must be two in the morning!"

Sherlock did not move. "Why was Molly crying today?" he asked, tonelessly.

"What?"

"Molly. Today at the lab. As she left, I noted her cheek was wet. Why?"

John sighed and sat up, facing Sherlock and crossing his legs, resigning himself to the certainty of a long conversation. "Probably because you refused her invitation to her party."

"Only children cry about such things," Sherlock said dismissively. "That can't be it."

"Okay, then – probably because you refused her invitation to her _birthday_ party in a rather mean way, and she's still quite in love with you."

"Ah. Was I mean?"

"You said you would rather have your violin rammed up your arse than spend half an hour making small talk with her friends and relations."

"I assumed she knew I was joking," Sherlock said, defensive.

"You didn't and you weren't," replied John flatly.

"Why is she in love with me? I think I've made it perfectly clear that I do not reciprocate any feelings she may have in that area."

"I don't know, Sherlock, I don't think it works that way. You don't just stop caring for someone, even if they don't want you."

Sherlock frowned, and shifted on the bed, draping one leg over the footboard and worrying the edge of the duvet with his fingers. He seemed deflated, a little lost, and very nervous. John was struck by the intense weirdness of the situation, the two of them sitting on his bed, talking in the night like schoolgirls. Or maybe like something else.

"People want things from me," Sherlock said in a low voice after a few moments of silence. "They want things I can't give them, things I don't understand. The public. Molly. Mycroft. You…"

"Me?" John was surprised. "What have I got to do with anything?"

"It has been four months and sixteen days since your last date, John," Sherlock recited. "It's been eight months and twenty-seven days since your last girlfriend broke up with you."

"Great, thank you for keeping count, I hadn't noticed," John said sourly.

"Why?"

"Why what? Why no girls? I don't know. Maybe I've been a little busy lately. Maybe you keep being so nasty to them that no woman in London will go out with John Watson. Maybe I've just given up!" He was annoyed at the turn the conversation was taking.

"Hmm." Sherlock made a non-committal noise.

John closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. So here it was. He knew, in some way, that this conversation was inevitable, but he had hoped that it would never happen, that they could go on as they were, not discussing it and not admitting that there was anything to discuss. But Sherlock had clearly been worrying lately, and John knew he would not drop a subject until it was resolved to his satisfaction.

There was a deep silence between them. John took a rare moment to examine his own feelings. He liked girls. He had never been confused on that point. But he couldn't deny his relationship to Sherlock went beyond mere friendship. He just wasn't sure what that meant. They had gone from being strangers to being a unit in a literal instant. He had never questioned his immediate devotion to the man, perhaps because he felt there was no reason to, perhaps because he had been so desperate for a friend and companion when they had met, and perhaps because he was afraid of delving too deeply into what they had.

His feelings for Sherlock weren't…he swallowed…sexual. At least he didn't think so. But he couldn't honestly call them platonic either. He didn't lust after Sherlock's body in the way he imagined a lover would, but he was also _aware_ of his body, his being, in a way he had never been of anyone's, even his own. He was attuned to him. Whether Sherlock gained or lost a pound, how close or far he was from him, his heart rate, his mood, whether he was agitated or excited – and every nick, every cut, every bruise. John noticed all of this without trying, in fact sometimes in spite of trying not to. It was like having an invisible cord attaching him to the other man, one that he didn't know how to sever and wasn't sure he wanted to.

John didn't know what he wanted, really. Sometimes he felt he wanted more, but he didn't know what _more_ entailed. Sex, heterosexual or otherwise? A girlfriend, a wife, children? He had dreamed of all that once, but he didn't know any longer. Mostly he just felt content with what they had – companionship, work, support. Sure, Sherlock was maddening most of the time, and with the rare exception of when John had been injured, never did chores or shopping, or any of the other things one might expect from a flatmate or friend. He constantly went through John's things, woke him in the middle of the night, and dragged him into dangerous situations. He was always in motion, quixotic, reactive, difficult, and brilliant. And John loved it.

He didn't want change. At least he didn't think so. But now the subject seemed to be unavoidable, and he knew things would be different once it was broached. He dreaded the thought.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. He shifted nervously, sitting on his haunches and twining his fingers around and around each other. He tried again. "John, I –" he managed and stopped.

"You don't have to say anything," John said quickly, hoping to still forestall it. "It's fine."

Sherlock frowned again, running a hand through his curls, fidgeting with them. "I'm not good with…things," he said vaguely. "I mean to say, there are things I just… I don't know how to do. I can't…. I'm not…" He let out an angry noise of frustration. "This is all wrong. I'm saying it wrong."

John's heart was in his throat. He forced himself to calm. He might not want to hear it, but there was clearly something Sherlock needed to get out. "Take it easy. Whatever it is, it's…fine, okay?"

This is only seemed to make Sherlock more agitated. He tapped his fingers against his thigh, faster and faster. He took a gulp of air.

"In my experience," he began, with forced slowness, shaking with pent up anxiety. "When you get close to people, they expect…certain things. I…I don't always realize that. And when I do, I don't know how to give it to them. Not emotionally, not…physically. I'm not… I have my work. I always thought it was all I needed, but it's not. I need…closeness. Sometimes. A companion, a… partner. But I fear I am doing you a disservice, when I can't be…fully…what you need…" He trailed off helplessly, not meeting John's eyes, focusing his gaze on his own tapping fingers.

John let out a sigh of relief, followed almost immediately by a swell of heartbreaking empathy. He was not the only who had felt alone, then. And how much worse had it been for Sherlock, to be unable to express this, even in the confines of his own head? To be constantly, forever, missing social cues, trying to find a connection with someone but never really knowing why it failed, until it was too late. Not knowing how to act as a friend or a lover, and not really knowing the difference between them. No wonder they had taken to each other so immediately, so desperately. And Sherlock was not asking John for more than he could give, either.

"Sherlock," he said, putting a hand on the other man's twitching knee to still it. "I don't want anything else from you."

The detective finally met his gaze, silently, his grey eyes searching John's almost hungrily, trying to make sense of the meaning behind his words.

"And you don't have to worry. About…that." He coughed awkwardly. "I don't always understand you," John went on. "And I certainly don't always understand what…this… is. But it's…good. For me. I don't need more. You don't have to…be afraid. That you're missing something. That you can't give me what I need. Or want. I wouldn't be here if that was the case, at least not like this."

Sherlock relaxed almost imperceptibly, but was still shaking.

"I'm more worried about what you need right now," John said hesitantly. "What you want. Tell me. Please."

Sherlock drew both knees up to his chest and peered at John over them, steepling his fingers under his nose, as if taken aback that anyone would ask him that. At last he said, with great difficulty. "I want you to stay, John." It was clear how much the admission cost him. "I want you to stay until the end."

John gave him a funny look. "The end? What are you talking about? Don't be morbid."

"Please promise me, John," Sherlock said hoarsely.

John gazed at him with concern. "Of course I'll stay," he said quietly. "It's never even been a question, has it?"

With that, the tension seemed to drain from Sherlock's body like the tide going out, as though he had only been holding himself together by sheer force of will in order to hear those words. He seemed to melt onto the bed. "Thank you, John," he murmured, rolling over on his side with his head facing the foot of the bed, knees tucked almost to his chest. He made a surprisingly small figure, all folded up on himself in that way he had. He was instantly asleep.

John thought briefly of trying to rouse him, but decided against it. He grabbed the spare quilt from his nightstand shelf and threw it over Sherlock, then settled himself in the only way he could fit on the bed, facing away from Sherlock, mirroring his position, each man's toes to the backs of the other's knees. John smiled to himself. Closeness.

He realized only then that it had not occurred to him to simply move downstairs and let Sherlock have the bed alone. This was not a position he had ever imagined himself in, even after meeting Sherlock. It felt alien, but it felt… right, too. He relaxed. It didn't need to be anything else, not right now and maybe not ever. It didn't need a name. He let his hand drift behind him and rest on Sherlock's feet, and slowly he fell asleep.


End file.
